


if the wind be still

by belovedmuerto



Series: An Experiment in Apathy [6]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: (John's not here right now though), Apologies, EiE, Gen, Greg and Mycroft are sweet on each other, M/M, an interlude, empath!John, experiment in apathy, experiment in empathy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-06
Updated: 2012-11-06
Packaged: 2017-11-18 03:04:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,479
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/556171
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/belovedmuerto/pseuds/belovedmuerto
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An interlude. Mycroft apologizes, to the best of his ability.</p>
            </blockquote>





	if the wind be still

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks, as always to my wonderful beta Castiron. 
> 
> I finished this and the next story this past weekend. Next one still needs some work, however.

Greg turns over and promptly goes back to sleep after Sherlock leaves. His phone is next to his head, the alarm turned on; he doesn’t have to be in until later in the afternoon unless he gets a call.

John’s bed really is quite comfortable. Not as comfortable as Mycroft’s bed; just the thought of Mycroft, of his house, his bed, his arrogant high-handedness is enough to make Greg grunt angrily to himself as he slips back into sleep.

Greg stumbles downstairs later, half-asleep, thinking over the things he needs to do before work, and comes to an abrupt halt at the sight of Mycroft in the kitchen.

_Figures._

Mycroft is standing at the worktop with his back to Greg. His suit jacket is folded neatly over the back of one of the kitchen chairs, and his sleeves are rolled, twice each, neat folds that won’t leave wrinkles when he disappears off to one office or another (Greg knows of at least three that Mycroft maintains, in various guises; he’s sure there are several more). Greg knows his cuff links will be in his right pocket, that his watch chain will be hanging across his abdomen; Mycroft is almost never without his pocket watch. It was his father’s.

“Toast with your tea?” Mycroft asks, not turning around, not looking at Greg. His voice is smooth and even; a tell, in this case. He’s nervous.

Greg stands gaping for a moment. Of course Mycroft wouldn’t give him a few days to cool down, no, he has to force the issue. Greg doesn’t want a confrontation, especially not before he’s had any caffeine, but Mycroft isn’t one to let things lie, let them be. He pushes and he shoves, he pokes and he prods, and he is never one to back down when he feels he’s right. Which is pretty much always, naturally. It’s actually one of the things Greg likes about him, that he fights, in his own sly way, for what he believes is right. And he fights for his family, loathe though Sherlock will always be to admit it.

Greg grunts in response and shuffles into the lounge as angrily as he can manage for being half-awake, collapsing into John’s armchair. Mycroft follows a few minutes later, carrying the tea tray, carefully not looking at Greg as he sets it down and pours tea, handing Greg a cup and a slice of toast with jam.

Well, he’s not going to turn down food prepared for him, even if he is angry with the man. Greg crunches through the toast and slurps the tea, even though he’d prefer to nip downstairs to Speedy’s and grab a coffee. Mycroft prefers tea in the morning; he prefers tea almost all the time. He’s like John in that way, enslaved to the brew--not that he’ll admit it. Too close to admitting a weakness, something Holmeses never do.

This is probably the closest thing to an apology he’s going to get from Mycroft. He’s not sure he’s ready to accept it just yet.

‘Make him work for it,’ Sherlock had said. He rather wants to, right now. And yet, he doesn’t. He understands, at least in part, why Mycroft helped John sneak away, and why he’d sent Greg to take care of Sherlock, why Mycroft had trusted that responsibility to him. But it’s been a long week, he’s exhausted and burnt out, emotionally and physically, and he’d really like to go home and go back to sleep.

Mycroft is watching him, expression careful, eyes sad. He’s bracing himself, and it makes Greg ache, not only to see it but that he _can_ see it. That Mycroft is sad at his anger, that Mycroft thinks this is the end. 

It’s not the end. Greg won’t let it be.

“I have to go to work soon,” he says, heavily, slumping in the chair. His brain is not much more than white noise right now, his body drained by caring for Sherlock for the whole week and trying to work an already demanding job on top of it. Greg wishes wholeheartedly he could take a vacation, sooner rather than later. 

Mycroft nods at him, and retreats across the room, to the sofa, and sits carefully with his cup of tea, with his plain toast.

“I need to get my stuff back home,” Greg continues, looking around at the few things of his that have migrated out of John’s room where he’s been sleeping and down here. There’s a tie balled up and left on the partner’s desk in the middle of the room, for example. His trainers by the door. Coat slung over the arm of the sofa.

Mycroft looks stricken, but he nods again. He takes a large sip of his tea and swallows heavily before speaking. “Should I have them returned to your flat?”

Greg looks at him sharply. “What? No. No, Mycroft, not my things at your place. Jesus.” He stands and crosses the room, sitting again next to Mycroft. “I’m not breaking things off, Christ.”

Mycroft shuts his eyes and turns his head away, and his shoulders slump briefly in relief before he gathers himself together, and takes another sip of his tea. Greg takes the tea from him and places it on the coffee table.

“Hey. Mycroft, look at me.”

Reluctantly, Mycroft does so.

“I’m angry with you. You understand why?”

Mycroft nods again, not looking Greg in the eye. That generally means that he’s not sure. Mycroft is very direct when he’s certain of himself.

“You treated me the way you used to, before we got to know each other. You pointed me in a direction and patted me on the head and sent me off to do your bidding without _telling_ me what was going on. I know it’s hard for you to trust people, Mycroft, but I had hoped that you’ve realized by now that you can trust me.”

“I do,” Mycroft breathes. He sounds terrified, though Greg doesn’t know if it’s because Mycroft trusts him or if he’s still afraid that Greg’s about to break up with him. Which, really, not going to happen.

“Then I need you to think before you do things like this. You could have just asked me, Mycroft. Told me what was going on, what you helped John do, that you couldn’t check on Sherlock yourself because he’d know, and I would’ve done it, you know I would have. Your brother is my friend. John is my friend. I’m not sure why you helped him run off the way he did, but that wouldn’t stop me from helping you out.”

“I know,” Mycroft says softly. 

“I just want you to _think_ , Mycroft. And remember who you’re dealing with, when it’s me, all right?”

“Yes, Gregory. I will try.”

“That’s all I ask.” 

“That really is not much at all.”

“I know. Now tell me what all this was about.” Greg settles into the couch, close enough that their shoulders brush together, and Mycroft leans subtly into him. It’s a comfort to both of them, the familiarness of it, of having someone to lean on, literally.

“They needed the separation, and John came to me for help with it. It was something I had suggested previously, and he decided he wanted to take me up on my offer. He needed something to take his mind off his trauma. I facilitated that.”

“Not sure you went about it in the best way possible, Mycroft.”

“Perhaps not. Sherlock is quite a bit more angry with me than usual, it would seem.”

“You don’t say.”

Mycroft gives him a pointed look, and Greg grins at him, and like that, things settle, that little hint of awkwardness ebbs away. Not perfect, not over, but Greg forgives him, and Mycroft can feel it. 

“Hey, I’m the one you put in the middle. I can poke at you about it if I like.” Greg tugs Mycroft’s pocket watch from its pocket and checks the time. “I have to go get ready for work. Thank you for the toast and tea.”

“You’re welcome.” Mycroft plucks his watch out of Greg’s hand, fingers lingering over Greg’s pulse point, and replaces it.

He stands, and Mycroft follows suit. Greg tugs on Mycroft’s waistcoat to straighten it, not that it wasn’t already straight; it’s just an excuse to stay close to him for another moment, and then he takes a step back. “I’m going to go to my flat tonight after my shift.”

“Oh. Yes, of course.” Mycroft doesn’t manage to entirely suppress the sad shock in his voice.

“I need to sleep, Mycroft. Actually sleep.” 

“Of course you do.” 

Greg smiles at him. “You can come over, if you like.”

Mycroft leans into him, just a bit; smiles, just a bit. “I will, if my schedule allows.”

“Call me later?”

“Yes.”


End file.
